


Sketches from a Relationship

by MiraMira



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: 3000-5000 Words, Epilogue What Epilogue (EWE), F/M, Gift Fic, One Shot, Painting, Rare Pairing, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-28
Updated: 2009-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-03 21:37:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiraMira/pseuds/MiraMira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she runs into Dean Thomas at the Leaky Cauldron, all Hermione Granger wants is a bit of conversation.  She ends up with a good deal more than she bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sketches from a Relationship

**Author's Note:**

> Written for inell as part of the hp_rarities fest.

In her relatively short but illustrious life, Hermione Granger had faced down a troll, walked willingly into a forest full of centaurs, endured the Cruciatus Curse, and taken the full brunt of an angry Molly Weasley's temper. There was no reason sitting on a bar stool at the Leaky Cauldron and nursing a glass of wine by herself should have been such an intimidating experience. On the other hand, ensuring that Harry lived to see his eighteenth birthday hadn't left her many opportunities to master the skill of dealing with pick-up artists. So far, she'd been forced to extricate herself from conversations with seven gentlemen who seemed more interested in the famous Harry Potter than her, three who wanted to know if she could introduce them to Hannah Abbott after the blonde bartender finished her shift, two wearing wedding rings, four others who she suspected were hiding theirs in their pockets, and more garden-variety creeps than she cared to count.

It was all her supervisor's fault, of course. Unlike the previous head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Patrick Stibbons was a good-natured, compassionate soul who responded to Hermione's reform proposals with genuine enthusiasm. They'd jointly driven the Ministry archivists mad with requests for arcane texts to support their positions, and spent many pleasant evenings together perusing the findings. But last night, Stibbons had lowered the scroll he was reading, blinked at her from under his bushy white brows as though he'd never seen her before, and asked, "What are you doing here?"

"Helping you research sixteenth century werewolf law," she responded with mild alarm.

Stibbons gave a gruff snort. "Appearances to the contrary, I'm not senile yet. I mean, what are you doing _here?_ Shouldn't you be out with your friends or dancing or joy-racing your broomsticks or whatever it is that young people do for fun these days?"

"Harry and Ginny have training exercises, Ron's with his new girlfriend, I don't much care for flying, and…" She was on the verge of saying she didn't enjoy dancing by herself, until she realized that just proved his point. Instead, she resorted to protest. "I'm having fun with this."

"Man – or woman – does not live by research alone, Hermione, m'dear. Trust me. I've been trying for twelve years since Nigel passed on." His eyes grew misty at the mention of his late partner, but he held up a hand to forestall any reaction from her, sympathetic or otherwise. "Tomorrow, you're leaving at five sharp, and you're not going home until you've been somewhere that has nothing to do with work and liked it. No arguments."

And so, having followed the path of least resistance and a number of the other Ministry employees when five o' clock arrived, here she was. Though if she kept waiting for fun to find her, she was never going to see her flat again. Time to pay her tab and call it a night, before any other would-be suitors approached her.

"Hermione Granger?"

She knew the voice, but in that first glimpse, she couldn't put it with the face. The tall, dark young man wore his hair textured like Lee Jordan's, albeit shorter, but Lee had never sported a goatee or carried himself with such a worldly air. Above all, she could not think why he would look so glad to see her.

Then the man tilted his head slightly, allowing her to catch sight of a sunken spot in his cheek, as though from an injury that hadn't healed properly – or perhaps more accurately, hadn't been given the opportunity to heal. The hazy memory of a thin, battered boy tapping the last of his strength to stand and give thanks before a tiny grave floated before her, superimposing itself on the scene, and the connection was made. "Dean? Dean Thomas, is that you?"

Dean – she was sure of it now; no one else she knew in the wizarding world had Muggle crowns on their back teeth – opened his mouth in a wide grin and laughed. "It's the hair, isn't it? I'm thinking about cutting it."

"No; it suits you." She adjusted her position away from the bar, the better to continue the conversation. "Where have you been keeping yourself?"

"In Italy. The Veronese Academy of Magical Portraiture, if you want specifics." He slid onto the empty stool beside her and signaled Hannah, who nodded and began filling a mug without a word. "Though seeing as I've been back for months, I could ask the same of you."

"Oh, work keeps me busy," she demurred, not wanting to get into the discussion with Stibbons. Besides, her brain was already buzzing with dozens of questions about Verona and the Academy. Her parents had taken her on holiday in northern Italy once when she was quite small, but most of what she knew of the city came from her reading. A firsthand account would be fascinating.

Unfortunately, Dean didn't take the hint. "I can imagine. I read some excerpts from your reports in the Italian papers." She must have looked dubious, because he hastened to explain. "You and that Stibbons bloke are causing quite the controversy there, did you know? They're having problems with feral packs in the countryside, and they've been looking to Britain as a model for how to deal with them. The idea that we might be loosening our restrictions isn't playing well."

No, she hadn't known. She found the news as gratifying as it was frustrating; as far as she could tell, nobody in Britain other than Stibbons seemed to care about her efforts. "Did they at least quote the parts where we talked about sentencing intentional offenders as human criminals?"

Dean frowned. "I'm not sure. Why?"

"Well…" Before she knew it, she had launched into an elaborate explanation involving the origins of the classification system for beasts, werewolf pack structure, and Muggle theories on rehabilitation. Dean listened intently, but his reactions to her points began to trail a beat behind what she was saying, and the gap only appeared to be widening. "It makes more sense if you have the source material in front of you," she cut the lecture off apologetically, when his dazed expression finally turned panicked.

He shook his head in awe. "You're still the only person I know smart enough to make sense out of all those citations."

She looked down to hide a blush, and discovered that Hannah had refilled her drink at some point while she was talking. "Enough about me, honestly. So you're really making a living as an artist?"

"Drawing, at least. I wouldn't call my sketches for the _Daily Prophet_ 'art,' and that's where most of my paychecks come from right now. But I've also done advertisements for some Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade shops, and that's gotten me enough of a reputation to begin selling my real paintings."

"That's wonderful!" She took a sip of wine. "And what is it you paint?"

"Anything and everything. Mostly figure drawing, obviously, but I use a wide variety of subjects." He drained the rest of his beer. "They're hung all over my flat, if you'd like to come see them."

Hermione froze in mid-sip and blinked a couple of times, attempting to make sure she'd heard correctly. He hadn't used any special inflection or emphasis, but the intent came through nonetheless. And here she'd thought she'd finally found someone to talk to who wasn't after anything else. "Oh, for heaven's sake."

"What?"

He did a very convincing wide-eyed innocent stare, she had to admit. But not convincing enough to fend off her arched eyebrow. "You can't think _that_ much of my intelligence if you expect me to fall for such an obvious line."

All trace of worldly sophistication gone, Dean stammered something that sounded like a denial. But Hermione was not in a mood to hear excuses. Nearly shattering her wine glass as she set it down, she tossed a handful of Sickles on the bar as payment and stalked out.

-

Furious as she was when she returned home, and as cold a shoulder as she gave Stibbons the next morning when he asked how it had gone, she had all but forgotten the incident two weeks later. So much so, in fact, that when she collided with a tall, dark fellow in European-tailored robes while hurrying through Diagon Alley on an errand after work, she had another instant of confusion before recognition set in. This time, though, she didn't feel inclined to acknowledge the acquaintance. "Sorry," she said, and tried to shoulder her way past.

But Dean wouldn't let her go that easily. "Hermione! Thank God I ran into you! Er…well, you know what I mean." His words came faster and faster, as though he was desperate to get them out before she sought an alternate escape route. "Listen, about that invitation…I swear, I didn't mean for it to sound the way it did. I had absolutely no intention of making a pass at you that night. Or any other, for that matter. I mean, not that I don't think you're…I just…" He sputtered to a flustered stop. "Damn. Is there any way I can phrase this apology that won't end with me hexed into a puddle of goo?"

Now that she was sober and no longer surrounded by clueless Casanovas, she found herself more inclined to believe him. "Tell you what. Why don't I just accept it, and we'll consider things settled?"

"Deal," he said, then reversed himself just as quickly. "No, wait. I've got a better idea. How about I show you?"

Curiosity warred with the desire to leave, and won out. "Show me what?"

Judging by his expression, he considered the answer self-evident, but shared it with her anyway. "The flat. Give me a chance to prove it's only about the art."

Hermione stared. "Now?"

"Do you have plans?"

"No," she said slowly, "but…"

"Just five minutes, then." He seemed torn between puppy-dog pleading and trying not to overwhelm her. "C'mon. I consider it a matter of honor."

If there was one tactic guaranteed to wear her down every time, it was the sincerity of Gryffindor boys with a noble cause they refused to abandon. "All right. Give me the coordinates."

"No need. It's right this way." He reached out his hand as though planning to take hers, then seemed to think better of it, and motioned to her to follow instead.

They walked through the main stretch and turned down a small side alley she'd never visited before. Dean's flat turned out to be on the top floor of a narrow, nondescript gray building, behind an even more nondescript wooden door.

"West Ham," he said as he waved his wand at the lock, which instantly popped open. Seeing Hermione's raised eyebrow, he grinned. "Security charm. But you're not the type to break in, are you?"

Whatever answer she intended to give vanished as she stepped inside and got her first good look at the room. When Dean had said there were pictures "all over," of every kind, he hadn't been exaggerating. Only a bed in the center and a small chest of drawers indicated that anyone might call the place home. Apart from the easel and art supplies over in a corner, the rest of the room was taken up from floor to ceiling with canvases and scraps of parchment in pencils, pastels, watercolors, and oils: old classmates and professors, unfamiliar figures she assumed were Dean's Verona colleagues, newsworthy individuals, street scenes, and animals, all looking as though they might spring to life at every moment. Without thinking, she reached out a finger to touch one.

"Motion doesn't get added until I've sold a picture," Dean explained, causing her to jerk her hand back. "I used to do it when I finished, but it was unnerving having a whole crowd of people hovering over me while I slept, complaining that I'd made their noses too big. Plus, sometimes they'd get into arguments with each other, and then the neighbors would complain."

"They hardly need it," she murmured, walking from frame to frame. One in particular caught her attention: a large oil painting of a red-headed Quidditch player in vivid green robes that took up the center of the wall opposite the door. As she came closer, Hermione recognized the subject as Ginny Weasley, resplendent in her Harpies uniform, every freckle painstakingly rendered. Hermione could practically hear her triumphant laugh as she stretched out her arm for the Quaffle.

"That's one of my favorites." She jumped, having almost forgotten she wasn't alone until Dean spoke from behind her. "It's from a practice right before the Quidditch World Cup when they held it in Rome. Gwenog Jones was the one who commissioned me, for a portrait of her as coach, but I couldn't resist making some additional sketches."

There did seem to be quite a few other pictures of Ginny in the collection, Hermione noticed. And the combination of the picture's detail and his smile as he recounted the story made her wonder exactly what made it one of his favorites. "You're not still in love with her, are you?"

If Dean found the question intrusive or painful, it didn't show as he shook his head. "I don't think I was ever in love with her, even back then. Just the image I had of her."

"She does have that perfect Titian hair," Hermione mused, strangely comforted by his declaration.

"Which is a nightmare to mix. Besides, I don't pick subjects based on their attractiveness." He nodded briefly at the charcoal rendition of Snape glowering at them from across the room before resuming his study of the canvas. "What caught my interest was her…spirit, for lack of a better word. I found it inspiring. Still do, I guess. It just didn't translate into our relationship the way I hoped it would. You know?"

Did she ever. She'd been drawn to Ron for similar reasons. There'd been an exhilaration to their arguments, one she'd assumed would evolve into pure passion once immaturity and stubbornness and concern over Harry's welfare and all the other barriers standing between them were gone. Instead, they'd found new sources of conflict. Thank Merlin they'd both agreed it wasn't working before they ended up as bitter enemies or unhappy newlyweds.

Only after she noticed Dean had transferred his full attention to her did she realize that at some point her inner monologue had become a public one. She clapped a hand over her mouth. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize." His stare was less wide-eyed now, though no less intense, and strangely familiar. "In fact, do you think you could hold that blush for a few hours?"

It took Hermione only a few seconds to figure out what he meant, but a good deal longer to make sense of the idea. "You want to draw _me_?"

"Only if you still don't have plans. And if you're willing, of course." He was starting to babble again. "But if you're still worried I'm trying to get into your knickers…"

"Not at all." She'd realized what was so familiar about Dean's expression; she'd seen it many times on others' faces and felt it on her own more times than she could remember in the instant just before a major breakthrough on some problem. What she had done to inspire it, she still had no idea, but she knew sex and other such trivialities were the furthest things from one's mind at such moments. "How should I pose?"

In a second, he was at his easel, rummaging through the supplies for parchment. "However you like. In fact, it's better if you don't hold still. That allows more of your personality to come out in the finished product."

"Really?" She found this freedom a somewhat disconcerting notion, compounded only by the thought that asking questions right now might not be the best idea. "What about talking? Will that distract you?"

"Not at all. That helps with personality as well." He looked up, pencil flourished as though prepared to cast a spell with it. "Go ahead, pick a subject."

And so Hermione got a personal primer on everything she had wanted to know about Verona and magical painting, plus several things she wouldn't have thought to ask before. Along the way, the conversation also managed to encompass ridiculous wizarding fashions throughout history, Celestina Warbeck, the merits of wine versus beer, their favorite Hogwarts professors, and Muggle cinema. Hermione found this last topic an unexpected pleasure: with her relationship with her parents still strained, and Harry clueless about anything relating to pop culture that hadn't been one of his cousin's obsessions, it was liberating to talk with someone who didn't need references from her life before Hogwarts explained.

_"Lumos,"_ Dean said suddenly, setting pencil and parchment aside in favor of his wand. Startled, Hermione realized the room had indeed gone quite dark. How long had she been there?

Basic lighting needs addressed, Dean scrutinized the parchment. "That'll have to be enough for now, I think. Shadows require a completely different approach."

She crossed the room. "May I see?"

He hesitated for a second, then turned the easel to face her.

Hermione hadn't known what to expect, but she still let out a gasp of surprise. Instead of one sketch, he'd made several, each a captured record of an unguarded second: laughing at a joke, arguing a point, pushing back her hair, gazing out at the viewer – or artist – thoughtfully. The girl in the pictures seemed prettier than her own mental image of herself, but the gestures and expressions were unmistakably her own.

"Dean…these are…" But before she could come up with a word to properly capture her amazement, she caught sight of his furrowed brow and downturned mouth. She knew that look and the emotion behind it. It was the frustration of a half-solved puzzle or unmastered spell: knowing the solution was out there, being able to visualize it, and yet unable to make that final leap toward completion. "You're not satisfied."

He continued examining the sketches. "They're…missing something. I can't explain what, but…"

She didn't even wait for him to finish the sentence. "Do you want to start over?"

For a few seconds, he seemed to seriously consider the offer, before shaking his head. "I don't think I have it in me." He glanced at the lit wand, the corner of his mouth upturned in a rueful smirk. "Besides, I've taken up too much of your time already."

"Tomorrow, then. For as long as you need."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "You might regret that offer."

Hermione looked around the room, then back at him, smiling. "No, I don't think so."

-

"…Then she chucks the casserole at my head, tells me to take my time cleaning it up 'cause I'm sleeping on the couch, runs upstairs, and slams the bedroom door before I can get a word in edgewise," Ron recounted, barely pausing between mouthfuls of the Leaky Cauldron's excellent bacon and eggs. Hermione found the bar much more enjoyable over Sunday brunch, which was how the trio had taken to meeting there on a semi-regular basis.

Harry lowered his fork with a puzzled frown. "I thought you said you'd invited her over to your place for dinner."

"I did."

"And I thought you said you still had a date with her next Thursday?" asked Hermione.

Ron grinned, the tips of his ears reddening slightly. "Let's just say she made a _very_ convincing apology."

"Oh, honestly, Ron," Hermione groaned.

He spread his arms wide in a gesture of cheerful helplessness. "I know, I know. But even if I _could_ find a nice quiet, agreeable girl, I don't think I'd have the slightest clue what to do with her."

"There's always Luna," Harry suggested, once the knowing chuckles from all three of them died down.

Hermione couldn't help laughing again. "According to Dean, she's anything but quiet in private."

"Dean Thomas?" Harry leaned forward, green eyes alert with interest. "I didn't know you were in touch with him."

She glanced down at her napkin, feeling suddenly and unaccountably awkward. "We've been spending quite a bit of time together, actually. I've been…posing for him."

Ron was the first to break the boys' open-mouthed silence, dissolving into cackles. "Oh, my God, Mum was right."

Whatever reaction Hermione had been expecting, it wasn't that. "What?"

"Last week, when you missed dinner at the Burrow," explained Harry.

"She insisted you must be out with a new 'beau,'" Ron elaborated, complete with finger quotation-marks. "We all thought she was off her gourd, unless Stibbons'd suddenly taken a fancy to birds."

"Even I don't work weekends if I can help it." Though truth be told, she'd cut back significantly on her weekday overtime as well. Just the other day, Stibbons had caught her on her way out the door, watching her with a half-forlorn, half-fond expression. ("I've created a monster," he'd declared.)

"So. _Posing._" Ron drew the word out with a leer.

"It's not like that," she insisted, more defensively than she'd intended. "Strictly platonic. We settled that on the very first day."

"How long ago was that?" Harry asked.

She was startled to realize she couldn't remember. "Five…six weeks ago?"

Ron snorted. "And you call _me_ thickheaded when it comes to relationships."

"It's _not_ a relationship."

"In your mind, maybe." Ron speared the last of his bacon, waving it about with his fork to punctuate his points before popping it into his mouth. "But Thomas isn't the obsessive perfectionist type. If he's been dragging this out for weeks, he's either hoping to see you nude eventually or so desperate to keep spending time with you that he'll take whatever he can get. Probably both."

Hermione snuck a glance at Harry, who was wearing the constipated look he got when he agreed with something but didn't want to come right out and say so. This only served to irritate her further. "Perhaps he just takes his craft more seriously now."

"Maybe." Ron took advantage of Harry's distress to sneak some pancake remnants off his friend's plate. "But I reserve the right to say 'I told you so'."

She knew she should seize the truce opportunity and drop the subject, but somehow, she couldn't bring herself to let it go. "I'm surprised you're trying to pair us off, considering…"

"What, the way I acted when he and Ginny were dating? Give me a break. I was a sixteen year old idiot who was jealous my baby sister was getting more action than me." Ron's voice softened. "Besides, you look…happy. A lot happier than I've seen you in a long time."

"He's right," said Harry, apparently not afraid to offer this bit of affirmation. "Not since the last time the Wizengamot approved one of your recommendations. And that's pretty damn happy."

A warm sensation crept upward into Hermione's face. She attempted to hide it by looking down at her plate and scraping together what was left of her eggs. "Well, I'm pleased to know he meets with both your approval. Even if it is completely unnecessary, because there is _nothing going on._"

"Whatever you say, Hermione." Harry pushed his chair back. "Unfortunately, I do have to work weekends, so more about 'nothing' will have to wait. Same time next month?"

"Fine by me." Ron stood, smirking at Hermione. "Feel free to bring Thomas."

She flicked a stray bit of egg at him as she left.

-

After the brunch, Hermione did her best to put Ron's teasing out of her head. But it was like trying to resist brushing aside nargles after listening to Luna natter on about them. His words would echo through her thoughts at the most inopportune moments: "If he's been dragging this out for weeks, he's hoping to see you nude eventually…"

She didn't stop spending time with Dean while she attempted to shake off the distraction, but he ended up carrying the bulk of the conversation, and every picture he made of her featured the same distant, glassy-eyed stare. Even she could see the results were without aesthetic merit, but Dean did not seem the slightest bit discouraged, which only lent fuel to Ron's speculations.

The last straw came when she paused in the middle of a daydream in which she was playing the role of Botticelli's Venus long enough to realize that Stibbons was asking her a question. Or rather, had been asking her the same question for some time. All she could offer him in response was a reddened, sheepish look.

Stibbons sighed. "Hermione, this has to stop."

She'd never received a professional reprimand before. Tears sprang unbidden into her eyes, and Stibbons's expression shifted to one of concern. He regarded her in thoughtful silence for a long time, then shifted his gaze to the clock. Quarter-to-five, she noted, daring a glimpse for a second.

"Go home," he said, not unkindly. "Get whatever it is out of your system, and we'll start fresh tomorrow."

"Thank you, sir," she told him, a resolution forming behind the words. Get it out of her system. She could do that. Only home was the last place she needed to go.

Dean was doing sketches for the _Prophet_ and wouldn't be home before five, she knew, but that didn't present a problem. In fact, it gave her just enough time to prepare. One short race through Diagon Alley later, she found herself at Dean's flat. "West Ham," she told the door, pointing her wand at it. It opened without protest. She hurried inside and shut it behind her.

_"…Hoping to see you nude eventually…"_

Before she could reason herself out of the idea, she undid her robes and let them fall. Her white cotton bra followed. Then her knickers, one leg-hole at a time, and there she stood: pale, goose-pimpled, in need of a trim and a pedicure, stomach in need of a few sit-ups, breasts too small, arse too flat, and all of it overshadowed as always by her frizzy mane of hair.

It wasn't the stuff of artistic masterpieces. But that hadn't made any difference so far, and if Ron was right, it wouldn't matter now.

The sound of the door opening and several items tumbling to the ground startled her out of her introspection. Apparently, Dean was home early, too.

She turned, fighting the urge to cover herself up. _"Surprise!"_ she contemplated shouting, although Dean's total paralysis seemed to render that unnecessary. At least he had managed to close the door first.

"Stibbons let me off work, and I thought I'd let myself in," she said at last, when he remained frozen. Still no reaction. Panicked, the logical part of her brain reasserted itself and cast about for a plausible rationale. "None of the other poses were working, so…I thought…maybe…"

Dean finally stirred himself enough to bring his jaw back to its proper position. "Hermione…I can't."

"Oh. I understand." She suspected this was one blush she wouldn't have any trouble holding for weeks. Not that Dean was going to want to try and capture it now. Awkwardly, she gathered up her things, wondering whether she ought to change back into them right there or slink off to the loo. The next time she saw Ron, she was going to let him have…

"No. You don't." Dean sounded strangled. "I _can't_ paint you like this and be professional at the same time. It's just not humanly possible."

…As many opportunities to say "I told you so" as he wanted. She lowered the pile of clothes slowly, a sort of inverted striptease. "Is that supposed to be a come-on?"

If the force with which he crossed the room and sent her robes tumbling the rest of the way to the ground as he kissed her didn't clear up his intentions, the speed with which he lifted her and set her down on the bed resolved any lingering doubts.

"I thought you didn't choose subjects based on attractiveness?" she asked breathlessly some time later, after Dean freed her mouth long enough to finish unbuttoning his own robes.

He cast them aside and lowered onto her, his breath hot against her neck. "There's always an exception."


End file.
